


when i dream (i dream of your fists)

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, D/s, Humiliation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://expectative.livejournal.com/41248.html">the SPN & CWRPF Song Fic Meme</a> for <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_beckalooby"></span><a href="http://beckalooby.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://beckalooby.livejournal.com/"><b>beckalooby</b></a>’s prompt: <i> After the great wall of Sam comes down, he develops a massive problem—he's sort of addicted to pain. It's not the same if he does it himself, and he knows Dean won't do it, so he finds himself guys that can, guys that have a kink for inflicting pain to match Sam's kink for receiving it. When Dean walks in on some psycho beating the crap out of his brother, he's not a happy bunny.</i> Song prompt: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUWbMRl_GHg%22">Pierrot the Clown</a> by Placebo. Title from the song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when i dream (i dream of your fists)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [C0c0plumb (cocoplumb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoplumb/gifts).



 

‘Tell me more,’ the man in the leather jacket says, leaning closer to Sam. ‘Or maybe’—he grins, exhaling a mouthful of cigarette smoke right in Sam’s face—‘you’d prefer to _show_ me what you like.’ His large hand moves down Sam’s arm, squeezes his wrist with a grip that’s like a steel vice.

‘Yeah,’ Sam says, ignoring the loud, pulsing music of the bar, focused only on the man who’s going to give him what he wants. ‘Yeah.’

 

\--

 

‘Beg for it, slut.’

‘Harder. Please,’ Sam gasps. The flogger comes down against his back, hard and fast, the man wielding it matching its rhythm to the thrusting of the cock in Sam’s ass. The fucking hurts as much as the whipping, because Sam insists on minimal preparation. He makes sure the men he goes to prefer it that way, too.

A hand grabs his hair, yanks his head up, forcing him to look at himself in the wall of mirrors in front of him. Sam looks, can’t tear his gaze away from the reflected scene, even as his eyes water with pain at the merciless grip of the hand holding his head up. His wrists are bound in leather cuffs above his head, his ankles in matching restraints, held apart and bound to the ends of a three-foot-long spreader bar. Sam prefers ropes, but they leave marks that would be hard to explain to Dean. The things they hunt don’t tie him up _that_ often.

The flogger slams against his cock and balls, tearing a scream from Sam’s throat even as he pushes himself back against the cock tearing into his hole.

‘Come, bitch.’

Sam obeys, choking back another scream.

 

\--

 

‘So how was she?’ Dean asks the next morning, looking at Sam over the rim of his second mug of coffee.

Sam shrugs. He’s worn a soft old t-shirt beneath his outer shirt, but the cloth still chafes painfully over the welts on his back. His ass is rubbed raw both inside and out, and sitting is torture. His cock’s so bruised it fucking hurts to pee.

‘Good. Last night was good.’ He can’t bring himself to force a smile, so he takes another bite of dry toast and forces it down with a mouthful of tea.

Dean says nothing, but his eyes stay on Sam, curious and thoughtful.

 

\--

 

Sam lets out a hoarse, muffled scream into the hand clamped around his mouth as the buckled end of a belt crashes down against his bruised ass, drawing blood.

He’s in an alley, still mostly clothed, his jeans and boxers pulled down to expose the vulnerable flesh that’s currently being mauled by the two men on either side of him. One of them reaches between his legs to grab his balls and squeeze them with brutish force, and Sam whimpers in agony, bracing his hands against the wall in front of him as the belt is raised again.

‘ _Sam!_ ’ Dean’s cry of horror rings through the night air. Sam twists his head to see the glint of silver as Dean draws his gun, blinded with rage and terror. He’s going to shoot first and ask questions later.

Sam wrenches his mouth free of the hand over it. ‘Dean, no!’

Dean’s close enough now that Sam can see the moment that his fear and desperation change to understanding. He freezes for a moment, gun still cocked, and then takes a deep breath. ‘Get your fucking hands off my brother,’ he says calmly, pointing his gun between the eyes of the man who’d been thrashing Sam with the belt. Sam stumbles forward against the wall as the men release him, backing off with muttered curses.

‘Get decent,’ Dean tells Sam, without taking his gun off the two men as they head back out of the alley.

Sam pulls up his jeans, hissing as his underwear brushes against the bleeding welts left on his skin.

Dean finally looks at him. ‘How long?’

There goes his hope of pretending it was a one-time thing.

‘A few weeks,’ Sam confesses. Someone’s drumming a beat inside his head, too-loud, crashing like waves against the inside of his skull. He glances back at the building with barely-disguised longing.

‘Hey,’ Dean says roughly, finally lowering the gun and grabbing Sam’s arm. ‘ _Hey_. Look at me, Sam.’

Sam looks.

‘You’re going to keep quiet. You’re not going to say one fucking word until I say you can. You’re going to walk out of this alley with me. And then you’re going to get in the car and we are going to drive away. Is that understood?’

Sam nods.

 

\--

 

They’ve had some awful drives in their time, days and nights when one or other of them was pissed or injured or on the verge of going to hell. Hours and hours of silence, not even Dean’s music to break the stifling stillness of the air between them.

But in hindsight, nothing’s been as godawful as this night. Dean stares straight ahead as he drives and Sam keeps his hands on his knees and looks out of his window. Images rush past like slurred words, the road wet with rain, tires and headlights zooming in and out of focus, shadows gathering on the roadside and disintegrating before he can make out the shapes in the darkness. Thoughts getting left behind before he can shape them into words.

In his head, Lucifer’s singing [Sometimes I Feel Like Screaming](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fsbIbAt_mo).

He doesn’t ask Dean where they’re going. They drive and drive until dawn bleeds through the darkness on the horizon, lifting it like a curtain. There’s almost something soothing about letting Dean take charge like this, even though Sam could probably punch his way out of the car if he wanted to.

They stop for breakfast at a roadside diner in a town Sam doesn’t know the name of, a town like the thousands of towns they’ve been to on jobs. The family business, it had been, until somehow the whole fucking world had become their business, had snatched Sam’s sanity away with both hands and flushed it gleefully down the toilet.

His muscles scream in protest as he hauls himself out of the car, sore and stiff. He needs so badly to rest, to close his eyes for a minute, that he almost breaks his silence to beg for respite. Pain without gratification has never been on the agenda these last few weeks, and the unfulfilled arousal from last night is coiled in the pit of his stomach like a trapped snake, hissing and biting. One glance at Dean’s hard, expressionless face—the first time he’s dared to look directly at Dean since last night—tells him that speaking is still not on the program.

They sit across from each other on the cheap red vinyl seats of the diner, sunlight streaming in from the window and helping Sam thaw a little after the coldness—in so many different ways—of the rain-damp night they’ve driven right through. Dean orders for them both in clipped syllables, not even reacting to their waitress’s attempt to be cheerful, and Sam lets him. It’s not like he has much of a choice, and it’s not like Dean doesn’t know exactly what Sam would order for himself when he’s tired and hurt. Comfort food: a vanilla latte and a Greek salad followed by waffles with strawberry syrup.

When they’ve eaten, Dean stands up and jerks his head toward the restroom. Sam follows him, half-dead with exhaustion. There’s no one else inside, which isn’t surprising since it’s still barely sunrise outside. He pees at the urinal, wincing at the dull pain in his still-bruised cock. He’s about to zip himself up when Dean takes him by the elbow and steers him to the counter in front of the mirror.

‘Bend over,’ Dean says, not soft but not quite harsh either, just matter-of-fact.

The words are associated with something so like hell that Sam freezes, fear clamping around his limbs.

‘Not gonna hurt you,’ Dean says gently, pulling a tube of salve from his pocket.

Sam bends over, his hands on the counter, his hair falling into his eyes. He makes no move to push it away.

Dean pulls down his jeans and underwear, and the smell of the antiseptic ointment fills the small room just before his calloused fingertips rub the cold gel gently into the welts on Sam’s cheeks. The muscles of his back are taut with tension, his body expecting pain in this position. He chokes back a sob when Dean’s thumbs slide gently between his cheeks, exposing his abused hole.

‘Sshh,’ Dean says, lips brushing against Sam’s shoulder, and it kills Sam that he doesn’t know if the gesture was intentional or not. He bites his lip to keep from crying out as Dean spreads the gel on his hole, his fingers feather-light. By the time Dean reaches around to his front to examine the damage there, Sam is rock-hard and shaking, his hands clenched into tight fists against the cold, chipped marble of the counter, his back arched painfully taut.

Dean’s careful fingers wrap lightly around Sam’s cock, stroking him very, very slowly. A hoarse, broken sound escapes Sam’s lips, his head hanging between his shoulders, eyelids squeezed so tightly shut that they hurt. Dean’s fingers are warm and slick with gel, his hand cradling Sam’s cock like it’s something precious and fragile, working it in slow-motion. There’s no pain-fuelled build-up of arousal this time, no frantic images blurring into each other in Sam’s mind, just the sound of Dean’s hand gliding around his cock. Dean’s other hand moves back around Sam’s body to find his hole again, rubbing softly against it, one wet finger slipping carefully inside. Sam clenches hard around it and comes into Dean’s hand, gasping for breath.

Recovering from his orgasm is like free-falling from a cliff, his head reeling from lack of breath. His balls hurt from coming, phantom restraints still cutting into them. ‘Sshh,’ Dean says again, into Sam’s hair this time, one arm wrapping around Sam’s torso, and it’s only then that Sam hears the sound of his ragged gasps that are only moments away from turning into wet sobs.

Sam turns his face blindly into Dean’s chest, and doesn’t cry. ‘Dean,’ he says into Dean’s shirt. ‘Dean.’

Dean says nothing. His arm’s like a fence around Sam, his breath in Sam’s hair.


End file.
